


Lírë harmaron ammirwë

by harnatano (orphan_account)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Well... almost, for a change, happy maglor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/harnatano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a gift for a friend who asked for a happy Maglor. I did my best, so here you go: Maglor is brooding, alone in the Gap, when he receives a few unexpected visits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lírë harmaron ammirwë

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dalandel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalandel/gifts).



> 1.For the timeline, I made it happen a short while after 402 FA; Morgoth’s first attempt to break the Siege and the battle in the Pass of Aglon.  
> 2\. If my quenya is correct, the title is supposed to mean 'Song of the most precious treasures".

The last notes echoed softly through the room, and Maglor carefully put his lute aside, finishing his song with a long sigh.

He was alone, sitting on a large armchair next to the fireplace of his study. The Gap, in winter, was a quiet place, and although he couldn't detect any presence around, he knew his song had been heard beyond the walls of his chambers. He knew the servants, cooks, guards and grooms had heard and listened to the melody. It was a song in which resounded the past, nostalgic notes, reminding the world of the dances and songs that could be heard in the streets of Tirion. And yet it wasn't a desperate nostalgia, oh no. There was in Macalaurë's song, the echo of a new hope, the sparks of a new fire, the reflection of his dreams. Dreams of victory, of freedom and innovation. Dreams of a new life, of glory and light.

Light.

His memories of the light, not the light of the trees, but the light of Silmarilli, he had mingled with his songs. Each note, each word had fallen and resounded like a flash of the blessed light captured and enhanced by his father.

In fact, it was almost impossible for Maglor to sing without it. He didn't know why, but each time he sang, his songs resounded with the memory of the light. A mirror in which the Silmarilli could shine. An illusive image of what had been stolen, reflection of the desperate need to know that they weren't lost. Music appeared as a balm, necessary and addictive, helping the musician to believe, to remember, to hope. An illusion maybe. But a necessary one, not only for himself, but also for all those who were ready to follow him.

And to his brothers, Maglor's hopeful songs sounded with more brightness than the stars of Varda, with more strength and power than any war cry.

The last notes of his song were still resonating in his mind when they were interrupted by a few knocks on the door, awakening the musician from his reverie. Líriolos, one of Maglor’s most loyal page, entered, and after a quick bow he explained to his lord that a messenger coming in the name of Ambarussa, was waiting for him outside.

“Outside?” Maglor repeated, surprise forcing him to stand up. “With this weather, you left him outside?” Winters in the Gap could be deadly cold, and if his land, in a basin between Hirming and the Blue Mountains, were protected from the strong winds that endlessly harrassed Himring and Himlad, the mountains couldn't prevent the snow, the frost and their biting teeth.

“You know the importance of the messages coming from my brothers!” The Fëanorian's mood had suddenly turned darker, and the sharpness of his tone had obviously impressed the page who was now stepping aside as his lord walked to the door.

“I-I know my lord. We all know, b-but we could not let him in.” The younger Elda mumbled, walking behind his lord through the corridors.

Maglor shook his head, walking even faster and paying no attention to the inquiring looks given by the few servants they passed by. “That is ridiculous.”

Finally, he reached the main gates, and neglecting the page's prayers which begged him to put on a coat, or any garment which would protect him from the cold, the Fëanorian lord stepped outside. “Where is he?” he asked, wincing at the sudden change of temperature. It wasn't snowing anymore, luckily, but a white powder snow was covering the land, and as he walked down the few steps before the gates, Maglor realised that a thin layer of ice was covering them.

It didn't take long before he saw it.

In front of him, in the middle of this white tapestry, a strong mare was looking at him. A tall animal, with a clever gaze and a chestnut coat, her long mane gathered in beautiful tresses and her tail wiping the air. The Noldo blinked; At first, it was awe, but soon it turned into disappointment and concern. Why was this horse outside and not in the stable? 

But before he could ask, he noticed the presence of an elf, standing behind the mare. The messenger. She had travelled a long road from Ambarussa's lands, and the pink tint of her cheeks and the tired glint in her eyes betrayed how bravely her body was fighting against the cold and the exhaustion.

“Did anyone invite you in?” Maglor asked as the page put a cloak on his shoulders. Instinctively, Maglor twitched, shivering with surprise at the contact, but he didn't protest, and soon he found himself grateful for the warm garment. In the meanwhile, the messenger had walked to him, bowed and smiled despite her obvious exhaustion. “Your horse should already be in the stables.” Maglor continued. 

“It is not my horse...” Said the messenger. “And she is the reason why I prefered to wait for you here.”

Maglor frowned, merely understanding the nature of these words, but as his gaze fell on the mare again, the truth started to buzz in his mind. “Do you mean...”

“Yes, my lord. The mare is yours, now.” The messenger continued, her smile growing wider. “A present from your little brother. I also have a letter for you.”

Maglor blinked and slowly stepped towards the animal, his hand reaching out to brush against the mare's neck. That was more than unexpected, and for a second Maglor felt like he was in a dream, overwhelmed by a wave of gratefulness. He had indeed mentioned the death of his horse in a letter to Ambarussa, a few months before, but he had never expected his little brother to actually give him one. And if his brother's land was more suitable for the breeding of horses than the gap had ever been, Maglor was still amazed by his sibling's generosity.

The snow had started to fall again, but the Fëanorian hadn't noticed it, and if his company hadn't pulled him out of his transe, Maglor would have stayed there, in awe, admiring the beauty of the animal with a deep gratefulness.

But they were waiting for him now, and with an absent-minded voice, he asked the groom to take care of the mare, and invited his guest to follow him inside the fortress. Gratefully, the messenger approved, and with a wave of relief, Líriolos followed, glad to have everyone safe and warm and back inside. A few orders were given; giving the messenger a well deserved meal, a bottle of wine and a room where she would be able to bathe and rest.

“Thank you, my lord.” 

Maglor smiled. They had never met before, but the Fëanorian could only show sympathy toward someone who had travelled such a long road, in the name of his brother (who obviously trusted her), in order to bring him this so precious gift. After a nod, the Fëanorian took the letter she was hanging him, and turned away. But before he could open it, before the messenger left, she spoke again. “I thought I wouldn't be able to reach the Gap in time with this snow. But I am glad I did. Your brother will be delighted to learn that I arrived on the right day.”

“The right day?” Maglor repeated, glancing at the other elf over his shoulder.

“The celebration of your begetting day, my lord.” The messenger said. “It is today, isn't it?”

Maglor froze, the page gasped and the messenger titled his head. “Did I say something wrong... my lord?”

The Fëanorian had completely forgotten about it, and silently, he made a few calculations, trying to remember the dates, the calendars, old and new, to calculate the years. It lasted a minute, maybe two, during which the silence seemed to become heavier. “Yes... It is.” He finally said quietly, as realisation struck him like a slap on his cheek.

“Is it?” Líriolos asked, his eyes widening in sheer surprise, and Maglor simply nodded, giving a soft smile.

Oh, but even if he had remembered, there would have been no celebration. His mind was turned to the North, busy with the repport of the last movements of the enemy. “Thank you.” He said. .”You both can leave, now.”

They bowed and left him alone with Ambarussa's letter, and Maglor stared at it lengthily, hesitating. He could already guess what was written; words of gladness, of hope, wishes and probably a few hidden compliments.

Illusions. A soft veil which would only cover the truth of their situation. It could be a joyful day, a day during which he could pretend and hide his dread behind a smile. But the reality wouldn't change, and his hopeful voice wouldn't be enough to chase the shadows away.

Maglor didn't know for how he long he stood there, staring at the letter, but when he opened it his fingers were numb. Oh it wasn't the cold. It wasn't nervosity either. It was a powerful feeling, a rush of emotions and love and gratefulness which he tried to hold back.

The letter was exactly how her had expected, and added to the best wishes were a few remarks on the mare; her rapidity and stamina, her age and lineage. The foal was born a few years before, from a steed and a mare from Aman, one of those they had taken on the ships. The breed was exceptional.

He reread the letter a couple of time, a shy smile dancing on his lips, until he heard new knocks on the heavy door. “You may come in.” He said absent-mindedly, keeping his eyes on the letter, on the tengwar signs upon it. His attention yet, was soon troubled by the numerous steps which accompanied the opening of the door. 

When Maglor was only expecting to see a servant, he saw two Ñoldor with severe glares, tall and covered with fresh snow. A cold draught accompanied their entrance, and between them, Líriolos looked rather uncomfortable.

“Messengers from Himlad, my lord.” He said quietly, and the two Ñoldor bowed deeply. “They were sent by your brothers and.... and your nephew.”

Maglor tilted his head, pleasantly surprised, for he could now guess the reasons of their presence. “Welcome to the Gap.” He stated, stepping toward the messengers, his hand moving slightly, just enough to tell Líriolos to send someone to prepare a dinner and a room for these new guests. Indulging his lord, the page left, and silently, Canyórë, one of the messengers and Celegorm’s friend, put a bag at the Fëanorian's feet. Maglor blinked, but his confusion was soon swept away by the immaculate fur which was pulled out. “White fox and ermine, my lord. Lord Celegorm said you would probably need it this winter.”

Amazed, Maglor took the heavy cloak in both hands, his fingers sinking into the pelt, the long fur glinding under his skin and its smell already filling his mind. But before he could totally pull himself together, another gift was pulled out from beneath Canyórë’s cloak. A black scabbard, a dark blue sapphire on the pommel, settled among silver interlacings, and the eight pointed star engraved on the grip in the most subtle and delicate manner. Curufin’s work, undeniably. 

Leaving his emotion aside, Maglor put the fur on the closest chair and grasped the weapon. It was light, lighter than expected, and when he unsheathed it, a silver spark seemed to spring with the blade. It wasn't as long as Maglor's current sword, but already he could guess the deadly sharpness of the edges. The flames of the fireplace which were reflecting in the impeccable blade seemed to send a kaleidoscope of light, red and orange and yellow through the room.

“Lord Curufin also gave us this letter for you.” Canyórë stated, and his voice pulled Maglor away from his silent contemplation. Taking the letter, Maglor opened it hastily, and in his impatience he didn't see the box, a small one, that the second messenger was taking out of the bag. 

Curufin's words broached many subjects, from the safety of the eastern side of the Aros, to the slow demographic growth in Himlad. A few mentions of Celegorm's proud victory against a troop of spies creeping from the Pass of Aglon - survivors from the enemy’s attempt to break the siege - words of hope and freedom, some of these words – Maglor could recognize them from their pecular style – coming from Celegorm himself.

It's only at the end of the letter that his brother would mention the date and the presents, but before Maglor could read it, the messenger coughed, politely trying to catch the lord's attention. Maglor raised his gaze, only to see the open box in the Ñoldo's hand, and in the box, a brooch, delicate and yet solid, silver ornamented with a topaz and little diamonds. Next to the jewels was a note, and Maglor picked it up to read Celebrimbor's words.

_'Dear uncle, you might need a clasp if you want uncle Tyelkormo’s gift to remain on your shoulders. This brooch should suffice, and give the skin a more sophistical appearance.’_

Maglor smiled, and he chuckled as he imagined Tyelkormo's expression when his nephew had first mentioned the jewel, for it was a sophistication that his wild brother would seldom appreciate, especially with furs. Curufin though, must have been proud, Maglor thought, staring at the jewel, for its finery and mastery were breathtaking. His nephew was slowly, year after year, reinforcing his already solid skills and Maglor didn't doubt that he would one day offer the world a masterpiece which would have amazed Fëanáro himself.

Líriolos chose this moment to come back, and after he had expressed his sincere gratefulness, Maglor alllowed the messengers to leave.

Alone again, the lord of the Gap continued the reading of the letter, and he gladly learned about his new sword, the techniques Curufin had used for the blade, new alloys he had himself devised during the last centuries. Concerning the furs, he learned that they were coming from the most majestic creatures Celegorm had ever seen since they had left Aman, and with another smile, Maglor reached out to press his fingers into the elegant cloak. A few lines later, Curufin was rambling about Tyelperinquar's mastery, and Maglor's smile widened, amused and almost moved by the obvious pride in his brother's words.

_‘...He still has a lot to learn, but none can deny the outstanding beauty of his creations. You should watch him work, Cano, he is impressive...’_

He missed them. All of them. And on this very moment, surrounded by gifts and words of hope and proofs of love and friendship, Maglor wished he could have them here, with him. He wished he could thank them with his voice, and not with a few words scrawled on a piece of parchment. Words which they would only receive many days, weeks later. He wasn't alone in the Gap, many of his henchmen were also his friends, though it wasn’t his friends that he needed now, it was his family.

With a sigh, Maglor took the cloak, and standing proudly in front of a mirror, he wrapped it around his shoulders. Clasping the brooch under his neck, he observed the silhouette in front of him, clouded in furs and gemstones, and yes, there was no doubt about it; the sight was pleasant. It missed something though, and in order to fill this awkward absence, Maglor decided to hang the new sword on his belt.

With his new horse, the lord of the Gap could regain the majesty of the king he used to be, and vanity, this blessing vanity, would give him the illusion of an upcoming victory. Another illusion, indeed, but a delectable one.

“My lord, something just arrived for you.” Maglor hadn't noticed Líriolos’ return, and once again the voice pulled him out of his contemplation. “It is outside... Do you wish to see it?”

Maglor gave a nod and silently he left the room, his cloak still wrapped around him. The page didn't say anything more, but the Fëanorian could feel his eyes upon the sword, an impressed gaze following the movement of the cloak as Maglor strode across the corridors.

It was still snowing, the snowflackes falling lazily from the clouded sky, and Maglor let out a short laughter as he saw the cart, filled with an impressive amount of boxes, all of them bursting with bottles of wines and liquors.

“Moryo...” Maglor murmured through his smile, for he knew there could only be one person behind this gift, especially considering that half of the liquors were coming from the Blue Mountains. Dwarvish liquors, and the nectars produced by the fertile limestone lands of Thargelion. There were more bottles than necessary, but his little brother after all, had always overestimated Maglor's drinking capacities.

After a few words with the messenger, who gave him the letter wrote by Caranthir, Maglor picked one of the bottles, and through the snowflakes he read the label; A very good year, a vinyard which was famous for its excellent production... really Caranthir hadn't try to make a fool of him.

And as Maglor observed the treasure, already thinking of a good occasion to enjoy this great vintage, he didn't notice the presence behind him. Lost in his thoughts, he only reacted when he felt a slight brush against his mind. Then he froze, eyes widening and the bottle almost falling from his hands as surprise and confusion buzzed in his mind.

"This appearance of yours is worthy of a king, Cano... I would almost worry.” Said the familiar voice, and still unable to turn and to face the one who was now standing right behind him, Maglor closed his eyes, hoping that this useless movement would help him swallow back his emotion. And he prayed - he didn’t know to whom he could pray, but he prayed nonetheless - wishing that he was not dreaming, that this presence and this voice behind him were not illusions.

A hand reached out, only to rest on Maglor's shoulder, and the voice continued. “Do you plan to stand here for the rest of the day? Or shall we go inside and taste this wine together, little brother?”


End file.
